


Les Deux Forçats

by slytherintbh



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Existential Angst, First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, Friendship, M/M, Madeleine Era, Montreuil-sur-Mer, Vidocq's Surete
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-16 11:45:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13635630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherintbh/pseuds/slytherintbh
Summary: Javert had taken a chance when he agreed to protect Valjean's true identity. Now that his duplicity has come to light alongside the fraudulent passport - how is life to proceed?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [abfackeln](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abfackeln/gifts).



While it would appear to any other person that Javert was his usual self, it was clear to Valjean that the inspector was undergoing great tremors beneath the surface. His hands were white and trembled imperceptibly in his manacles. From time to time the fiacre jostled and two sets of chains would let loose a sound like the falling of rain as the two men were jolted about, guard staring idly out of a window.

“Javert –“

“Shut up.”

Valjean fell silent.

Javert’s usually impeccable hair was mussed from the events of the past few days. Hints of a shadow were forming on his chin and on his upper lip, exhaustion painting lines onto his brow and the sides of his mouth.

For Valjean, this was not so appalling. In truth, he’d always expected to end his life with the guillotine or with the letters _TFP_ burned into his skin, worked to death in the bagne. No, this was not so terrible. But for Inspector Javert, man of the law, powerful hound of the prefecture? All of his misery and obedience was evident in the way he carried himself. Indeed, to anyone else, the inspector would seem to be handling his arrest with remarkable grace. Increasingly Valjean found that he did not fit into the masses where Javert was concerned.

“Please, Javert.”

“What?” Javert snapped. He did not catch Valjean’s eye, and the guard turned to watch them. “Have you not said enough, Jean?”

It was a curiosity to Valjean that Javert continued to address him with _tu_. Was it disrespect? Had he not yet slipped off the glove of friendship? Maybe he could not think of calling a convict _vous_ , despite being one himself. Whichever it was, the guard raised one eyebrow so high that it disappeared beneath his cap.

“Must we be like this? Arras is not so far away, and after this I do not know if we will talk again. Friendship cannot continue if I am dead, monsieur.”

“Or I,” Javert growled.

“You do not know what punishment they are suggesting yet.”

“I would rather die.” Pulling at his chains, Javert shook his head. “To go to the bagne, to wear the green cap on my head and a red coat on my back? It would be intolerable. No doubt men there would remember me, guards even, and if I were not murdered in my sleep it would be divine intervention at work. If you go to the guillotine, let me go also. Better to die with my dignity and my strength than to waste away in Toulon. Better that this had never happened!”

With that, he sank into the fabric of the carriage and despaired.

“If I had known,” Valjean muttered. “If I had known that this would be the outcome, I would never have let you conceal me –“

“What good does an ‘if’ do, Jean! It has happened. We shall be gone before the month is out. Lord have mercy on us.”

“Amen,” the guard mumbled, and coloured at the pair of eyes that immediately bore into him.

“I have not regretted this,” Valjean admitted, gaze slipping from the intruder and back to his friend. “If it soothes you any, our friendship brought me great joy.”

 “Well. Good.” Unused to the dispensing of genuine feeling, Javert attempted to hide behind a collar that was not there, merely hunching so as to defend his honest heart. “And I, Valjean. And I.”

They passed through the fields in silence, sun setting behind the verdant landscape. Valjean prayed idly, thinking of Fantine and Cosette, wondering if the ailing mother was watching her child fall asleep in the children’s hospital ward. Surely she knew by now that good Madeleine had been arrested… he only hoped that the shock would not affect her health. The sight of the townspeople ogling both the mayor and the inspector as they were thrust into the cachot would have turned many a stomach.

Night fell, and with the growing darkness Javert became ever more agitated. He looked at everything save for Valjean, and only relaxed once the guard across from them fell asleep, no doubt exhausted from the dramatic day behind them.

Javert turned, and whispered something that Valjean did not understand. More urgently, Javert repeated himself, and it took a moment for Valjean to recognise the argot that Javert was speaking. To think, the inspector speaking the warped language of the criminal! There was not such a distance between law enforcer and breaker after all. _“Jean,”_ Javert hissed, barely visible in the darkness. _“Do not pretend that you cannot understand me.”_

 _“I am out of practice,”_ Valjean replied, voice low. _“I never spoke it much. How is it that you do?”_

 _“Necessity.”_ Shifting indignantly, he scowled at the guard. “ _The young fool is asleep. He should be fired.”_

Valjean laughed silently. _“You were waiting for it.”_

_“I was. I have one question – do you have that blasted sou that gave me so much grief in the past?”_

_“So you know about that. Truly, Javert, you are as fine a criminal as you are a policeman. I might do. Had I known that this would happen then I would have made sure – I will look once we arrive.”_

_“I was bound to be one or the other.”_ Javert tried to fish about in the pockets of Valjean’s coat, but the incessant tinkling of his chains made the guard groan and shift in his sleep, and Javert froze. _“Yes, better to wait. Then you must escape.”_

_“And you.”_

_“No. I have protected you these years and would not see that be wasted. But I have broken the law, and I will be justly punished, for I was never a good man. You are a good man, Jean.”_

_“I disagree.”_ Valjean did not pursue the point further, as it was an ongoing argument that he always seemed to lose. _“Have you no cause to go on? Do you not want to enjoy life’s treasures?”_

_“Policing was my life. I had no desire for a family, or for money. Madeleine was the closest thing to friendship I allowed myself, and then you bothered even that, Valjean. No, I could not marry, nor would I want to. You are the extent of my love.”_

_“Friendship for one lonely old man.”_ Valjean smiled. _“You could do worse.”_

Overcome with emotion, Valjean dared to place his hand over Javert’s and watched the internal battle that the inspector underwent, moonlight casting his face half into shadow. Eventually, Javert turned his hand so the palms met in a gentle embrace. Both were cold. “ _Escape with me,”_ Valjean begged, and heaved a deep sigh. _“Sleep, and think on it. We only have until morning.”_

*

Javert could not sleep.

The moon would not stop bothering his eyes, an errant ray continuously blinding him. To his side, Valjean slept, head lying on the inspector’s shoulder. All that could be seen of the man was the regular rise and fall of his chest and the white hairs that tickled Javert’s chin. Waking that morning to find his friend had gone grey overnight had terrified Javert, the weight of Valjean’s many years suddenly all too apparent. In his frustratingly predictable manner, Valjean had simply observed his visage in the water they were given and said nothing.

How long had they been chained? Too long, days, and that was nothing in comparison to what they might undergo. _You are a criminal,_ Javert thought. _You are no better than the thieves and the whores on the streets._

Or, as Madeleine would no doubt call them, lambs led astray. Bitterly, Javert rather thought that Madeleine was the one to lead others astray at times. That was certainly true of himself.

That polite, marble smile. It had thrown him off when they first met. Monsieur Madeleine held nothing of the convict in his behaviour, initially, so it had only been over the weeks and months that Javert had pierced through the mask and observed the mayor. _He will not fool me_ , the inspector had thought, and he was correct. Javert had not needed to be fooled. Jean Valjean and his saintly countenance had overthrown his sense of law completely and rendered disguise meaningless.

“Do not arrest me,” Valjean had pleaded. It had been years ago, but the memory was clear enough to be new. “I will show you that I have changed. Please, monsieur, the town will fail if I am removed.”

Now Javert had chains to show for his mercy and an existential rent that he couldn’t sustain. Policeman or criminal. Two men beholden to the law, two men outside of society, as opposite and dependent as black to white. Already the man on his shoulder challenged his old views. Maybe, maybe other men could choose. Just not Javert.

At this point, there was no returning to the law.

Watching Valjean sleep, there was a stillness in his soul, and Javert brushed his lips to the white head at his side. He was a criminal. Javert was a criminal. Once a reprobate, always a reprobate, it had been foolishness to believe that a boy born in a jail could ever rise above his station. So the inspector was to turncoat. It was inevitable from the start.

The thought pleased Javert. “I am a criminal,” he said aloud. “I am no longer an inspector.”

“No,” Valjean mumbled in his sleep. “You are a mouse...” With that, he turned and buried his nose into Javert’s shirt, breathing in happily. “Ah! What sweet smell...”

Chalking it to the ramblings of the dreaming, the decidedly ex-inspector shuffled to reach maximum comfort in his cramped position. It was difficult, and he found himself cursing Valjean, damnable saint. Like a thief, stealing the affections of an upright man…! In that sense, Madeleine was identical to Jean-le-cric. If anything, Madeleine was worse. He stole time, and stole a heart, both infinitely more valuable than a loaf of bread.

To be against the law could scarcely be worse than working in its favour. An inspector was not so fine a role, despised by the people for its secrecy, paid mere pittance. Had Valjean not been inviting him to meals for the past few years, Javert might well have starved himself in obedience to the law. A job in the factory was better than his 300 francs a year. It was for dedication to the work, not for any money, that he had been a policeman.

Shuffling into Valjean’s warmth, he rested his cheek against the soft head of hair and found it comfortable enough. To think he was here. Any other version of himself would be appalled. Yes, he could _change_ , but he could not avoid being outside of society. Selfishly, he was glad that the same was true of the friend that slumbered beneath him.

By the time Javert slipped away, the sun was bruising the horizon and an embarrassed guard was observing the two men intertwined across from him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and now to jump back a little

“May I ask what I am being charged with?” Madeleine said, hands curling around the bars of his own jail. His simple acquiescence to the law may have saved him. A pity he had not been alone.

“Fraud,” the gendarme replied. “Whoever you are, monsieur, you are not Jean Madeleine. It has been found that your papers are forged.”

At that, Madeleine smiled. “Well,” he replied, façade revealing its first crack as he struggled to remain passive. “That may be so. But why Javert? He does not need to be here – you should set him free, good monsieur.”

This made the gendarme snort. “You jest. His obstruction of justice admits guilt just as well as words might. Besides which, Jerome would disagree with you.” Another guard was dabbing at his nose, wincing, bruises bubbling up where Javert’s fist had connected. He cast a very direct glare at Javert, who was standing stoically in the corner. Nothing could perturb him.

“Protectiveness of a friend is no crime,” Madeleine muttered, but said nothing more.

Electing not to reply, the gendarme stalked out, leaving the two men to their cell and the injured Jerome. Voices were still rising in astonishment from beyond the walls, citizens enquiring as to _why_ the most notable men in Montreuil had been bound like common slaves. Excitement and anger muddled into a confused song. So many eyes had watched them in perverse curiosity and Javert loathed them all.

“You must clear your name,” Madeleine whispered to Javert, directing the inspector to sit. “This is not your burden to bear – “

“Stop talking, or you shall incriminate us _both_ ,” Javert’s stoicism faltered, and he grimaced.

“Please. Javert, please. I know you trusted me. I am so sorry.”

Madeleine’s words were chosen with so much care but it was Valjean who was saying them, and it made Javert feel naked under the scrutiny of Jerome. He wanted to hide their faces away, rebuild the image of the mayor and renew the disguise, ensure that he and _only_ he would ever get to see Jean Valjean. Instead he simply shook his head and slunk down into a crouched position.

Sunlight filtered into the cell through a tiny grate in the wall, and the pair watched it together as it grew dimmer and the clamour of the crowd died down. The same gendarme appeared, expression victorious.

“You. Javert. I have questions for you.”

The lash of the _tu_ was appalling, but Javert stood, hand lingering on Valjean’s for a second too long. He stepped up to the bars and resisted the urge to spit. “Yes, monsieur?”

A piece of paper was thrust into his line of sight. For a second, he was confused – then he read the first line and a terrible weight settled into his gut.

_Monsieur le secretaire,_

_While, monsieur, it is perhaps inappropriate to do so, I feel obliged to inform you of a potential miscarriage of justice in Montreuil. As a mere inspector…_

He did not need to review the whole letter. Two parts were important.

_I believe that the man who goes by the name ‘Jean Madeleine’ is in fact parole breaker Jean Valjean, and I have some evidence behind my suspicions._

Javert felt Valjean walk up to see the letter and pretended not to hear the muffled gasp that he gave. He gritted his teeth and observed the signature.

_Yours,_

_Javert, January 23_ _rd_ _‘23_

Had he not burned the letter after deciding not to send it? How could he possibly have committed such an oversight? It was certain, this was his hand, his words, and he could barely think of turning to observe the reaction of his friend.

“What a useful document you have provided. A fine inspector. Would you confirm for me, then, that this is your hand?”

There was no point in lying. “Yes.”

“So Jean Madeleine is in fact Jean Valjean?”

Javert pursed his lips petulantly. “Fine then,” the gendarme compromised. “Can you confirm that you wrote this in 1823 and as such have been protecting a potential criminal’s identity for over a year?”

“I – yes.”

“Thank you. In light of new evidence, you will be tried for protection of a wanted criminal and resisting arrest. Valjean – if that is your correct identity – will be tried on changes of recidivism, breaking of parole, and the ownership of false documentation.” He shook his head. “How rotten the core of Montreuil is! You will be transported to Arras within the next few days to await trial.”

Javert’s hands clenched against the bars as he watched the gendarme leave and Jerome take up proper position by the door. “ _Merde, merde._ What have I done?”

When he dared to look at his friend, the last vestiges of Madeleine were peeling away, Valjean appearing both saintly and painfully betrayed. Age had thrown itself onto his shoulders. “You truly wrote that?” Valjean asked.

“After the incident with Fantine,” Javert replied, stepping back and sitting in the corner of the cell. “I was angry with you for overthrowing my ruling, so I penned a letter to Chabouillet. In the end it was never sent. At first I forgot, and then I couldn’t imagine why I’d ever written such a thing. I should have burned it. Now I have ruined us both.”

He covered his face, and Valjean moved his hands away. Forgiveness shone from his holy expression. “No. I should never have asked for you to do this. You have put your career on the line for my sake.”

“But I acted in anger, I broke the terms of our deal –“

“We are both in this room together. Let us not argue, for I have forgiven you, and I would take the whole punishment gladly.” Jean smiled strangely. “It is a queer thing, to see you in chains.”

“Inevitable, perhaps.”

Javert did not want the pitying look that Valjean cast his way. They had shared their tragic life stories months ago, maybe a year since, even. That had been a long night. He could not remember the exact layout of their conversation, more the way that Valjean had wept into his shoulder at speaking of Jeanne, the flickering heat of the fire, the confusing stirrings of his own half-awoken heart. Again, he knew not what words he had used to speak of his mother, only the choking shape of them in his mouth.

“I don’t think so,” Valjean muttered. “Enslavement is a natural status to no man.”

“You read too much Rousseau,” Javert scoffed.

Valjean just smiled.

Had the guards been less vigilant, perhaps Valjean would have had the opportunity to bend the bars on the window and allow them an escape. As it was, Jerome was replaced by a nameless gendarme, and he by another, so that the pair were watched the whole night.

“I wish you were angry.” Javert had slunk down into a hunched position in his corner; Valjean was leaning his back against the bars, legs sprawled carelessly across the floor. Javert moved to card a hand through his hair and was stalled by the restriction of the chains. “It would be easier.”

“Why?” Valjean asked. “It would be another misery atop the rest.”

“It might alleviate my internal cursing.”

“I am not much moved to anger. You know this.”

With a sneer, Javert nodded. “Ever a Christian.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Valjean said. “Or why you say it as though it were an insult.”

It had occurred to Javert that they were going to die. This fact lost none of its potency in rumination – Javert did not fear death, but he resented the method. Being killed by some villain in the night was more honourable than the swoop of the guillotine. It glinted in the back of his mind and sickened him.

“I am in bad humour,” Javert admitted.

“You should sleep.”

“I fancy that impossible.”

“Come, then,” Valjean said, with a gesture. “Rest against me and it may be easier.”

But Javert did not want his warmth. Instead he huddled against the scratched stone of the wall and ignored the chill, shuffling his hands from time to time so that the weight of his chains grew less apparent. He finally slept to the sound of Valjean’s quiet tears.

*

Jean Valjean did not sleep until long after.

His weeping was not bitter, nor angry. Break the law – why, he had broken the law many times, and this was the punishment for his transgression. Sorrow for the sake of injustice was wasted. Rather, he despaired for the state of his town, for his dead life, for the mother and child whom he was abandoning so shortly after finding them. His rest was exhausted and fitful. When he awoke the birds were crying out from the other side of the cell window, Javert huddled in the darkness, mouth hanging open a fraction as he breathed.

Wincing at the impression of the bars against his back, Valjean managed to stand. Grime was trapped beneath his fingernails, his cravat dangling untied, shirt open with the top button missing, lost in the scuffle. They had taken his coat.

“What a mess,” he said to himself.

An understatement, to be sure. Looking at the man in the corner gripped his heart most painfully. God, if only he had been alone when they had come to arrest him. Then Javert would have been clear and free; free to defend him, even. Javert existing as anything other than the Inspector was plainly wrong.

Already his cellmate was unrecognisable. Without his greatcoat he was smaller, almost diminutive, for all he was tall. The thinness of his wrists was apparent within the manacles.

Valjean turned, head to the bars, and took to his knees in prayer.

Many minutes passed in this way. He became lost in the petitions of his mind. It was only the shuffle of chains that alerted him to Javert’s waking, and the unhappy groan that accompanied them, that of a man most unhappy in his situation.

“Good morning,” Valjean said, without moving.

Javert heaved a shaking breath behind him. “Your hair is white.”

Valjean hummed and shuffled to look into the bucket of water at his side. True enough, his brown curls had loosened off their grey roots and turned white overnight. “So it is,” he replied mildly, and returned to his place of prayer.

“Is this all, then?”

“Is what all, Javert?”

“A prayer for our souls? Could you not have run?”

“The guard has been steadfast,” Valjean muttered, and shut his eyes at the rebuke.

“We shall not survive this,” Javert said, and Valjean ignored the clutch of fear in his gut.

“Javert –“

“I do not wish to talk,” Javert said. “Let me think.”

Uncomfortable silence settled over the room. Valjean prayed as Javert paced. Once the sun had reached its high point in the sky, a group of gendarmes arrived to escort them from their cell. They were bustled out from the cell, bundled into the carriage, and there they stayed until the next morning.

Jean Valjean observed Montreuil as it disappeared into the distance behind him, the walls of his town hostile and unyielding. He would never see it again.

*                                                                                

Arras was bustling.

Word had spread of the mayor-convict and his inspector, leading to a veritable stampede of interest. Many men and women waited outside the jail to catch a glimpse of the infamous pair. Gossip fabricated marvellous tales of backhanded deals, a town run by subterfuge and deceit, some suggesting that the men were lovers who had reunited after meeting in Toulon.

Curiously, that was a constant in every tale. The two had met in the bagne – it was common knowledge, and the only honest piece of information that swarmed in the street that morning.

“Well, it’s a jail,” one shopkeeper opined loudly. “Who can say what behaviours they get up to?”

The fiacre pulled through the cobble streets with an uncertain tilt, as though it were aware of the load it carried beyond its physical weight. It stopped outside the cells with the gracefulness of a drunk. A waiting group of gendarmes rushed forward as soon as it arrived, muscling away an irreverent crowd.

A harassed guard stepped out first. “They won’t give you any trouble,” he muttered, and walked off to find the nearest bar.

Javert emerged second, whiskers barely pushed into shape, visibly exhausted and furious. Overnight his determination to be consistent in his moral inclinations had rebuilt him into a potential felon, bright eyes begging to be insulted so that he could let loose some of his bubbling fury. Seeing this, the mob fell back and lapsed into whispers.

After Javert, Valjean looked practically apologetic, hair sticking up where he had slept on his friend’s shoulder. Stretching as far as the manacles would allow, he raised an eyebrow at the faces around him, and smiled. Despite this, the whispers grew even more persistent. A kind face is always more suspicious than a snarling dog. It was in this way that Valjean’s lengthy criminal history was evident – he had learned to build the mask of respectability, where Javert offered untrained malcontent.

The three guards fell upon their capture and led the men inside. “We seem to be famous,” Valjean muttered to Javert.

“So we do. Abominable things. I never could stand sensationalism.” A guard poked Javert in the back and he fell silent.

Valjean was quickly disposed of, thrown into a small holding cell that would only just improve upon a cachot, and Javert was deposited in an identical cell out of sight. “You will both be tried before the week is out. Men may stop by to identify you; you will not attempt to engage them in conversation.” Footsteps echoed against the cold floor and dissipated.

Calm and collected as ever, Valjean observed his room. It had less space than the cell in Montreuil, but his heart stung to think of his town, so he tried to avoid comparison. Naturally, the walls were bare stone, carved into by countless men and women before him. Slurs and prayers alike surrounded him. Above his head was a diminutive window with thick iron bars – not big enough for him to get through. What passed for a ‘bed’ made Valjean grimace, and think forlornly of his rooms back at home. Rustic, simple, essentially Christian, he had loved them.

 _There is no such place as home, now,_ he thought. _It was never mine to keep._

‘Home’, such as it were, was now a matter of ‘wherever Javert may be’. Toulon, heaven, even the world outside if they could be so lucky.

Valjean checked that nobody was observing his cell. The only people who could see him were the three prisoners on the opposite side. One was hidden from view, one drawing on the floor idly, and the girl directly in front of him seemed to be asleep. Bars of sunlight fell across her prone body. Shuffling to the back of his cell, Valjean dug around discreetly in his back pocket and almost wept with relief.

A sou slipped through his fingers and fell to the ground with a muted cry. Scooping it up, he opened it hastily and removed the tiny saw, one which had not seen the light of day in a decade.

His escape was simple. Javert’s perhaps less so, but he was glad that the man had agreed. Waking up in the fiacre had doused Valjean’s spirits (for it could have been a dream, so easily could have been one of his nightmares) and he’d pretended to sleep so that he could ignore the guard. Minutes or hours later, there had been stirrings of life from his partner, and Javert’s hand had flexed beneath his own. A small nod was all it took for an agreement to be made.

We leave together.

Two sets of footsteps drew near and Valjean put the saw back into the sou and secreted it beneath his ‘mattress’. They stopped short of his cell.

“Here he is, Monsieur le secretaire. Your… inspector.”

Valjean could just see the edge of a coat as the guard stepped aside. “Yes, this is Javert,” an unfamiliar voice said, rich and bourgeois. “My protégé… what has happened to you?”

No reply came but the fluttering of chains, and the shuffling of a man standing up. “Monsieur,” Javert muttered. “I did not expect to see you here.”

“They called for me, to ensure your identity. It is lucky that I was in the area with other business.” A low, sad sigh met Valjean’s ears, and he strained against the cell bars to try and glimpse the people that he heard. “Truthfully, Javert, I never expected this of you. I will ensure that your years of service will not be ignored. A death sentence is unlikely.”

“Let’s not be coy, Monsieur Chabouillet. The bagne _is_ a death sentence.”

Chabouillet… yes, Madeleine had read that name before on letters from the prefecture. He was a high ranking official, and it shocked him to realise that Javert had always had a powerful man on his side. Guilt shook in his hands. Javert had been his protégé, and look at what Madeleine had done.

“Well. In any case. I will do what I can. You are already much changed by this, I can see. A pity.” There was a pregnant pause. “May I see Valjean?”

To hear his name from such wealthy lips made Jean Valjean start in surprise. Of course Chabouillet knew his name. Of course – and yet – it seemed wholly wrong that anyone knew of his true name besides Javert. All too late he remembered the way that he was clinging to his cell, on his knees, desperation evident in his every limb. The man was impeccably well dressed in comparison to Madeleine’s worn finery, auburn hair pulled into curls almost as neat as his mustache. Convict and Secretary stared at one another, suspended for a moment in mutual consideration.

“How curious.” A gloved hand almost moved to offer itself, and thought better of it. “The reports were quite right. You seem wholly respectable. I imagine that you would pass for a magistrate given a decent coat and top hat. As for whether Javert was right about you, I couldn’t possibly guess.”

He paused. Valjean smiled. “I hope so,” he said.

“I hope so too. Well, I suppose that’s all I was here to do. I have identified your man and sated my curiosity.” Chabouillet fiddled with a ring on his left hand, lost in thought. “A shame I do not have more time. Do not worry, Javert,” he said, striding back through the narrow hall. “Your case will be fully looked through.”

For a few minutes, there was silence. Valjean had slipped back from his kneeling position and was resting against the wall, plotting an escape, when Javert’s voice broke out from the hallway. “What case? I have concealed a convict.”

It was an outburst of helpless reason.

Valjean wanted to apologise. They’d not really had the privacy necessary, but he wanted to hold Javert in his arms without the fear of prying eyes, bury his face into the man’s neck and just - hold him. Perhaps that would convey the meaning that he desired, that this was never supposed to be anybody else’s burden to bear. If Javert hadn’t incriminated himself by protecting Valjean, then he would gladly have taken the whole weight of the fall. Madeleine’s days had been numbered anyway.

That had been a truth that he had always known. When the gendarmes swarmed into his office, bursting in on a conversation between Madeleine and his loyal inspector, the realisation as to what had happened was immediate. Had Javert not flown to his aid, placing himself between his mayor and the law… Had his eyes not widened in quite such obvious fear…

Punching the gendarmes had been an unnecessary but rather enjoyable addition to that awful afternoon.

Now more so than ever, Valjean desired to see Javert. When Madeleine had died (trussed up, thrown into a cell, a disguise disintegrating into nothing) it had been no terrible thing. For the first time since the all-important confession, Valjean had stepped into his true identity with vigour. Calm, irreproachable eyes came to life, and it was like waking up from a long slumber. His smile grew more genuine. Touches, once so demure and sanctified, dared to linger and communicate love. Of course, Javert had met Valjean since their agreement, but it was with the tacit understanding that Madeleine would always be there.

How long-sleeping Jean Valjean desired to live! To exist as more than an alibi, to be a man rather than a chain of lies!

Escape could only hope to happen under the protection of darkness. While guards did not linger in the hallway itself, they likely stood waiting outside it, protecting the door. Plans formed in Valjean’s mind – yes, this could be done, if he had a few days before their trial. The courts were no doubt eager to get the false magistrate to the bagne, alongside his corrupted policeman. It did not particularly suit Valjean to think of Javert as ‘his’ in such a way and he grimaced. Showing that a man could change was not _corrupt_ . Allowing Javert to crumble into hatred _would_ be, however, and it firmed his resolve even more. For the sake of their souls, they would have to leave soon.

Valjean waited.

He ate the meagre meal that was thrust into his cell without complaint. He watched as the girl across from him continued to sleep, head lolling when she shifted from one side to the other. He listened to Javert’s rhythmic tapping on the bars and wondered what the man could be thinking. Speaking seemed impossible, not without airing to many curious ears their private business.

When he was sufficiently happy that the convicts around him were asleep, Valjean withdrew his tiny saw from the sou and crouched down in one corner, head just reaching the lock. It was the usual affair, solid metal with a complex key, but not thick enough that the bars would prove a better choice. He set the saw up against the lock and drew it back and forth, twice. To his relief, the sound was no worse than it had been in the bagne, muffled with the careful placement of the hand. It was possible. He needed only wait for the night.

*

“You were under his rule?”

“Sure.”

“And the other two?”

“Well, I can’t say for sure, but they’ll recognise Valjean.”

Still waking up from the nervous half-sleep of the convict, Jean Valjean heard his name being spoken and tried to pay attention to the words being said. Again, there were footsteps, but now they were accompanied by the clatter of chains. There was a loud thump against a nearby cell.

“Wake up.”

His lack of vantage point was beginning to stir Valjean to frustration. Years of freedom meant that the limited vision of the cell was a forgotten memory, one that had been his whole world and now felt like his hell. There was a shuffling of a body as it moved upright.

“Your testimony will not mean much in comparison to Monsieur le Secretaire, but it is important that we have multiple witnesses. Is this indeed Javert, once guard of Toulon?”

When the reply came, it was with masked amusement. “Yes, monsieur. That is adjutant guard Javert. I was subject to his rule during my stay in Toulon, but he left before I.” It seemed like the man wished he could say more, but he had a religious patience in his tone which wouldn’t allow it.

“Right. And now for Valjean.”

Brevet was immediately recognisable, even though he had aged and now wore a black and grey smock instead of the red coat. A gendarme was escorting him with a wary gaze, though it was not as distrustful as it could have been, and Valjean sensed the man’s desire for honesty. For a long second, Brevet considered the man before him. Time spent as Madeleine had transfigured Valjean from a grimacing brute to a man whose white hair could pass as a halo.

“I am sure I have never seen this man,” Brevet muttered. “There is perhaps something in the face, and his body is strong enough, but this is nothing like Jean Valjean.”

The gendarme tutted. “Are you sure? Is this not a ploy to acquit an old prison-mate?”

“No. I swear on my conscience, I don’t know him. His hair is completely different, and his expression – a man doesn’t look like that, not after Toulon.”

“It must be. He admitted as much, and why would the inspector have –“

“Brevet.” Having no patience for uncertainty, Valjean stepped up to the bars and held out his arms in a placating gesture. “Yes, I am much changed, but I remember you. You had those braces, with the check pattern, much admired. Surely you recognise me?”

A frustrated sigh arose from the general direction of Javert and Valjean had to suppress a laugh. By way of demonstration, Valjean held out an arm, indicating old scars. “Do you remember any of these?”

Brevet did. With some time and inspection, he remembered certain aspects of the man’s appearance, much to the relief of the gendarme. Awe – and perhaps something akin to respect – had taken hold of the man, and he muttered to himself as the gendarme led him away. “Can a man change so much… and to tame that old hound…!”

A blush rose from Valjean’s neck to his ears. He deliberately ignored the mutinous sounds that Javert was making, still hidden from sight.

*

Javert was _angry_.

Much as it would have surprised many, Javert was rarely given to such a violent emotion. His policing had been harsh, yes, but it was fueled only by a passion for the law. The only time he had been truly angry was when Madeleine had taken Fantine from the jail cell in Montreuil. In that event, he had almost broken his oath with Valjean, and even composed a letter that would have ruined him. It was never sent, although it later fulfilled its purpose. Champmatheiu had appeared at exactly the wrong moment and the ordeal of clearing his name had taken Javert’s mind away from revenge. He was glad for it, too, because actions done in anger were rarely intelligent.

But he was angry.

Chabouillet’s pitying gaze drove him nearly feral, incapable of enduring the unspoken thought that it was inevitable, but such a shame, such a _shame_ that he had fallen this low. ‘ _You are already much changed’,_ he had said. How true that was.

No. Chabouillet would not have recognised the man that Javert had become under Madeleine. As Brevet had said (albeit under his breath), the old hound had been tamed. After that, a turnaround in morals was not so bad. It was harder to accept mercy than it was to do evil, harder to love Madeleine than to cast off respectability at last.

Javert had rankled under Brevet’s hidden laughter. As a Christian, he couldn’t outwardly express his mirth, and instead he’d mocked with his expression. Then, for one blessed moment, Javert had wondered if the change in Valjean would prove enough to make him seem innocent. It was a foolish, useless hope, and that didn’t deter Javert from sighing furiously when Valjean offered up something for Brevet to recognise.

A tame old hound. Well, Javert could cope with that. To turn his back on the law, believe in Valjean instead, that was amenable.

He paced his cell and wondered how they would escape. There was the sou. At this point, his friend was nothing short of an artist in these escapades. No doubt there was a special knack to the timing. Javert just wished that it would happen soon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u know, when i started writing this in late september, i actually started looking through the code penal for what they would be charged with? wherever my notes went i dont have them now. but god how extra
> 
> anyway im going to try and keep this beast short and sweet in comparison to the sprawl of oym  
> thank you for reading!!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> i've been sitting on this forever so hh lets see what yall think
> 
> also if argot doesnt work like that then  
> just pretend for me


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